Legends of Alarnin Series: Gilbert Beilschmidt
by YaoiFanL
Summary: AU. The plan was simple: follow the order and find Fritz, then become the most awesome knight in history, win epic fights and return to the homeland to conquer it back in the name of the King (and for personal satisfaction). Except things don't always go as planned.


**PLEASE READ A/N**

 **This little story is part of the** _ **Legends of Alarnin**_ **series – a series of short stories that contribute a bigger fic that I'll post soon. They do** _ **not**_ **give away what will happen in the fic or break the tension. I usually don't do this but the big fic includes more fighting scenes, duels and stuffs and I'm not sure if I'm writing the battle scenes right. I've never written swords-fighting before. So any comment, advice, suggestion, any help at all would be highly appreciated.**

 **Fritz. He doesn't actively participate in Hetalia. I hardly found anything about his personality or any quotes (so I can get a bit of how he was speaking). All I found was about the battles he fought and his liking for arts and French fashion. Therefore, I had to improvise and I hope you'll like how I portrayed him. And I went for the German/Prussian version of his name.**

 **Folkert. Apparently, that's Germania's human name. Did you know that? I didn't... until about 2-3 days ago. Yeah, he's just mentioned in a couple paragraphs.**

 **Alarnin – that's the name I gave to the whole empire. Technically, it'd be a kingdom because it has a King (not Emperor) but it's big so... empire it is. Realm of Alarnin. And Fortress of Cinders in the capital city. Naturally, not even a king/emperor can control all by himself an entire empire. What would he do if people half the country away would decide to make the area an independent country? Yeah, good luck controlling them from such distance! So he sends trustful to various areas to maintain control and order and also protect the land from the invaders. Much like the Ottoman Empire did. But those people are not necessarily princes (no prince is mentioned in this chapter) or related to the Crown. Just to be clear. The law and such are inspire from reality, mostly from medieval times (you just have a whole bunch of legends and myths and superstitions to inspire you there!).**

 **You'll notice there are parts when I didn't use the names of the characters and just referred to them by the age, rank, colour of hair etc. That's because, at that point, the character from whose POV it is doesn't know the name of those characters. Or simply to avoid repeating the name 10 times in 5 rows.**

 **WARNING: violence, some blood, language, slyness... Prussia's there, what are you expecting? Also warning for future cuteness *cough*little Ludwig*cough*, brotherly love, a struck of responsibility (desperate times, desperate measures, right?)**

* * *

 _Different_.

It had been the word repeating in his head over and over again, ever since he had set foot on the land. Alarnin was strange, too quiet, too classy – albeit wet and muddy due to the pouring rain -, too boring; but weirdest of all, the people with their funny clothing. How could they even move with those things wrapped around them like coffins? How could they fight like that? Surely they didn't look much like warriors – then again, ever since he had first laid hands on his sword, his father taught him not to fall for the appearances. A good warrior was a good warrior, regardless the outfit.

The glances, though. What, hadn't they seen boys before?! Why did everybody steal glances or bluntly stare at them? Logic dictated that not many travellers came by. No wonder! Who would have felt comfortable being stared at like some freak of nature? All right, maybe he was overreacting. He huffed, blowing a rebellious hair away from his eyes and resisting the urge to fold his arms. He was the adult, he was the leader and, most importantly, he was in charge of his little brother.

A couple fixed their gases on them, not even having the decency to be discreet. The man leaned over to whisper something to the woman, who, in return, giggled. It didn't take a genius to figure who the comment was related to. The boy clicked his tongue, ready to snap. And he would have snapped, had it not been for the light squeeze on his hand.

"I don't like this place..."

His eyes darted to the child – such a worried expression should have never crossed that young face. Instead of cringing at the sight, he flashed a half-hearted smile.

"Me neither. This town is soooo boring!"

The child sighed. "They're staring at you."

"Good!" The small smile turned into a full grin. "Means they recognize awesomeness when they see it!"

A few people flinched at the beaming voice, but quickly returned to their previous business merely shaking their head or muttering something about being unnecessarily loud.

"No, the weird kind of-"

"You worry too much, Lutz." The boy threw his arm around his brother in a half hug, threatening 'Lutz''s balance for a second. It was partly out of playing cool and partly because of the uncomfortable glances. "See that tavern?" He continued, pointed at a wooden door with a sign that read 'The Copper's Cup' hanging above. "How about we get something to eat first? I bet they have free rooms too!"

'Lutz' eyed the place, not bothering to hide his suspicion. The four men who had just entered appeared dangerous, if the scowls on their faces and the way everyone stumbled out of their way was anything to judge by. The inn's name hinted no more confidence, either. He opened his mouth to protest, searching for an argument valid for the both of them – there was a rather large difference between what one saw safe or risky and what the other saw as such. The age would have been a satisfying enough reason; however, it was too late and he found himself being dragged inside. With the first step inside, came the itchy smell of alcohol. Suddenly, the humid scent outside felt much more endearing.

"Get a table. I'll see what they cook."

The tavern itself didn't live up to high standards. Most tables were occupied by drunk or tipsy men, laughing loudly and flirting with some women. There was a free table in the corner – which, luckily, 'Lutz' managed to take before anyone else did. That would make a perfect spot, nothing flashy and far enough from the drunk groups to avoid troubles. At the time, it was best not to make a scene. On the far right, some cracky stairs leaded to the first floor, probably to the rooms for rent. No curtains, but the dirt on the windows prevented the light to come in. Instead, candles flickered alit around the walls. Otherwise, there was only the bar and the chubby man leaning against it, chatting with someone else.

* * *

The grand doors opened to allow a soldier to enter. The man fell on his knees in front of the King, bowing his head in respect. "I apologise for disturbing you, My Lord." His gaze shifted to the other ranked male in the throne room. "Sir." His voice trembled; poor man had run all the way to the Palace. Despite his youth, it had proved difficult to cross the distance in short time. He was panting heavily, gulping, sweating and his eyes switched from one spot on the floor to another. There was fear in those brown eyes of his; the kind of fear who froze to the bone, the horror clouding one's judgement. The soldier looked as if he had seen a ghost – or worse.

"Speak up, already!" The King demanded sharply.

The man bit his lips. "It...it took down some of our best men. Alone. My Lord, people are terrified!"

"What may this 'it' be?"

"It looks like a boy, but it is not a boy."

"Then what is it?" The King growled; he was getting tired of dancing around the subject.

"It's a..." He took a deep breath, "A demon. A spawn of the devil."

"Do you hear what you're saying?!" The King cried, standing up.

The soldier flinched. "I pray I'm mistaking, My Lord. But no human boy could fight like that. A-and his looks are ones of a demon: pale as a ghost, white hair, bloodied eyes –" a shiver ran down his spine at the memory "- they seek death!"

The ruler hummed thoughtfully. "What you describe sounds indeed like something devilish. Prepare my horse, I shall see it myself!" Once the soldier scammed, he turned to the man to whom he had been talking before the interruption occurred. "What do you make of it, Frederich?"

"To be fair, Sire, I have my doubts. Scared people tend to exaggerate but if he spoke true, I would like to meet this demon. I've always been curious what it'd be like. With your permission..."

"My Head of Knights shall be present, isn't that so?" The King waved his hand dismissively. "You may."

* * *

They had not expected this.

True to the soldier's words, there it was, surrounded by a crowd of curious people, a young boy battling. While the sight resembled the description, Frederich felt a bit disappointed; he expected something more... Terrifying. Something with claws, fangs, tail, maybe even wings, something less human. However, apart from the strange skin tone and hair colour, the boy looked like any other boy. The clothing was also different, but not what the knight would have called demonic. Barbarian, perhaps; leather and fur and a sword almost half the teen's size were nothing like Alarnin style. Nor it reached the man's standards of hellish attire. That sword, threatening otherwise, looked funny in the boy's hands. Frederich hid his chuckle, though.

A few men lay defeated on the ground or crawled away from the field. Blades clashed, fighters pushed and grunted and cried. Bodies hit the bloody splattered ground. With a huff, the boy pared a soldier's sword and kicked him in the chest. The man rolled in the dust and brought his hand to his pained chest, coughing.

"Didn't get enough yet?" The 'demon' shouted, sticking his weapon into the ground. Sweat rolled down his temple, breath came out in heavy pants, his hands clenched the sword's handle even as he supported his weight onto it.

 _He's tired._ Frederich concluded. Despite the stance, the challenging attitude, the defying tone, the boy was exhausted. He hid it well, though, for no one else seemed to have noticed. The knight's eyes travelled over the defeated soldiers. He had to wonder – how could one young teen beat all those men? Trained men, nonetheless! And still stand, albeit leaning on his sword? Something didn't knot. Was he not human? But demons don't get tire, from what he had heard anyway.

The crowd cried names; the white-haired male either bared his teeth or barked back a reply. It bothered him. _Now why's that?_ It didn't make sense, if the soldier at the Palace had been right. There was one more detail: the lack of attack. The alive, though injured, men could get up and fight again. Resting was an advantage. Why didn't the boy kill them? He had the chance, all he needed to do was move a few metres and stab the enemies. So why didn't he? To preserve energy? No, battling them again wasted more energy than one hit.

No man launched again, nor did any move out the way. It seemed to annoy the boy further. His patience wearied out or perhaps he just couldn't keep the show up much longer.

"I'm done playing." The boy announced in an even tone. "Let us pass," his lips curled into a bloodthirsty smirk, "or I'll kill anyone in my way."

 _Us?_ Frederich hadn't seen any company. As some people scattered, terrified by the threat, something caught his eye. A small hand tugged onto the boy's clothes, a hand belonging to someone hiding between the fighter and his coat.

"You shouldn't provoke them."

The knight had to prick up his ears to catch what the quiet voice had said.

"Don't worry, Lutz," the boy lowered his voice, but it held no malice; it was affectionate, reassuring, "we'll get out of here. Then we'll find Fritz." He shifted a little, which gave Frederich the chance to see whom he was talking to.

"But they are soldiers... _Real_ soldiers." A blond kid argued, obviously worried.

The boy, instead, rolled his eyes. "They're losers." He placed a hand on the child's shoulder. "Besides, they called me _that_ name."

 _Is he protecting the kid?_ It would have explained why he hadn't stepped away. _But evil creatures don't protect._

"I'll take your challenge!" Frederich called, gaining everyone's attention. He turned to the cloaked King – a way of hiding his face and remaining unrecognised – and whispered: "With your permission, of course." With the ruler's approval, he made his way through the crowd. People moved to the side, some surprised, others delighted, but all curious about the end of this particular fight. Everyone knew who he was, the great skills he had shown and about the military victories he had gained.

"Do you have a death wish, old man?" The boy asked nonchalantly.

Frederich's eye twitched. No one called him old. So maybe he had a few wrinkles, maybe he had some grey strands but he was in his late forties.

"I shall ask you the same, kid. Perhaps you'd like to give up now? It'd be a shame for your youth." The knight retorted sweetly, drawing his sword.

"Give up?" The boy laughed – a very strange laugh. Once it died down, the sadistic smirk was back. "I never give up."

Somehow, that satisfied the soldier. It would have been disappointing if it had ended up with a renouncement. So he charged. The boy yanked his weapon. The swords clashed and both fighters pushed forward. The audience gasped. The blade departed with a long shrill. A few metres stood between them now, but none stepped closer. The first move was just to check the enemy's strength; Frederich was pleased to conclude that he had been right from the start. However, the boy remained on the spot, feet firmly dug into the ground. He stroke again, with more force but the boy fended with a little difficulty.

"Is that all you can do?" So _he just let the others waste their energy, then probably took them down with a hit in the weak place._ "You said you were done playing."

The teen grit his teeth. His adversary was just fooling around – if he had put that strength into a superficial attack, then a wallop would be a problem. He was sure the man analysed his moves just as much as he did; that man was a predator, patiently watching, waiting and hunting his prey. Two could play a game. He only needed space, he needed to be able to move. He glanced at his brother. _Dammit, I can't let Lutz uncovered! Come on, think of something. Thin-_

"Pay attention to your enemy!"

He hitched up his sword, but the force knocked him off his feet. He tumbled on the ground a couple times. "Ugh!"

"Get up! We're not done yet."

His head snapped up to glare at the man. What he saw caught his breath – his opponent had noticed Ludwig and was only inches away from him. So Gilbert slammed his fist down and pushed himself to his feet. He did not want to give this man satisfaction, to do as he said, but he couldn't risk now. Hopefully, though, the guy would take it as stubbornness, nothing related to the blond child. He had to put some distance between them. Quickly.

"Don't worry about your friend," the knight assured, as if reading mind, "I have no interest in him. It's you I'm fighting."

Could he trust a stranger? No. Did he have a choice? Not really.

"You'd better!" If the man already knew, there was no point in denying. "Get away from him!"

"Make me."

Of course he'd refuse. The boy cursed lowly before charging. Although the slash inflicted no damage, it succeeded in warding off the soldier. Gilbert wasted no time, he swung his sword again. The sharp edges clattered, twisted into a semicircle until one of them flung the other's tip. Despite his blade being on bottom, the young warrior chuckled. He stomped onto the enemy central ridge and pulled his sword from beneath only to plunge it at Frederich. As planned, the knight dropped his weapon in order to dodge, which gave the boy the opportunity to hurl it out of reach. As not planned, the moment he kicked the sword, the man grabbed his wrist tightly and wrung it. The second blade hit the ground. Gilbert hissed as he swiftly turned around. His arm was immediately immobilised behind his back. It wasn't a pleasure, but he had no choice if he wanted not to have his wrist broken.

"Not bad..." The soldier thrust the arm harder into his back, causing the 'demon' to arch his back, "for a kid." For safety, he placed his free hand on the other's right shoulder.

The weapons were now both kicked away, on the same side of the battlefield, yet none of the fighters had the chance of snatching them. As they stilled for a short while, their breaths came out in raged puffs. The series of attacks and counters drained their energy. Frederich waited for an acid reply, but it seemed that his opponent preferred to take a quick break first. Or so he thought until he heard the weird laugh tearing out of the boy's chest. Now he was confused. What was funny in the whole situation? The loser shouldn't have laughed; he was rather sure he had won. After all, he had control over the boy's movements.

"I can't reach my sword..."

Frederich raised an eyebrow. Was that the funny part?

"Back home... There's this thing... Fight to the end. Win or die, for that's what war is like."

 _As I thought. He's been raised to fight in wars. To kill._ There were warrior trained from an early age to be perfect killing machines. Never question, never hesitate, never feel. Just obey their King. They knew no mercy. They knew no affection. They knew no other passion than war. Their joy consisted in bathing in the enemies' blood, watching them writhe in pain until they begged for death. Good for war or torture. So cruel, yet so true. If not all, the powerful empires or kingdoms had these machines. It was hard to name them humans. It would have been hypocritical for Frederich to call them monsters, considering that he had trained some himself.

One thing didn't match, though: this boy had shown care for his companion. Thinking carefully, he noticed something else. While they were battling, he noticed something distinct into those red eyes. Probably what the other had called 'seeking death'. He could not deny there was pleasure. Fun. The boy enjoyed – he'd dare say even loved – fighting. No doubt about that. However, it was not the kind of pleasure the killing machines felt, nor there was that blank expression they carried. It was something alive like a burning flame. A fire burning for the activity itself, for the adrenaline, for the feeling of being on the edge, of not knowing the outcome of it. Mostly. Likely, there was also a little part of those attributes building a war machine.

Not a killing machine. Nor a demon, despite the physical features. Just a good warrior with a mind and heart of his own. If loyalty was also a feature, he'd be just the kind of soldier Frederich had been seeking.

The knight sighed. _Too bad they think you're a demon._ An idea sparked his mind. _Let's play on this, then._

"Win or die, huh? Unfortunately, it's not my place to kill you." Frederich replied after a long pause. "Devil's worshippers are burnt at stake."

"Are you deaf people?" The boy snarled. "Get it through your thick heads already: I am _not_ a demon!" He puffed his cheeks childishly. "What I meant is: you think I'm powerless without a weapon. The little story I told you? Yeah... I've never lost a fight."

Frederich opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a choked grunt. The elbow dug deeper into his belly; he lost his grip as he automatically leaned forwards. He found himself thrown over and harshly connecting with the ground. He had been so sure of his victory that he had not anticipated a counter, even after both caught their breath. Now, both were down: the knight on his back and his opponent on all fours complaining something about weight. Inhaling deeply after air had been knocked out of his, the soldier rolled over, pushing himself up. Their eyes somehow landed on the swords; they glanced at each other before they launched for the weapons. They gripped the hilts almost simultaneously, more or less securely. The boy was the first to strike, but Frederich stooped, so the blade flashed above his head. In exchange, he swung for the legs, but his adversary jumped, also avoiding a cut. They both withdrew, circling each other, searching for a weak spot or an opening.

 _I'm younger... Faster, lighter... and, man, he's heavy!_ Gilbert analysed, remembering his surprise attack. After Frederich's wallop, he had one painful shoulder... After throwing him, he had two sore shoulders. The effect didn't feel as good as the idea seemed then. _I can use it to my advantage, if I trip him, he'll take longer to fend. Or create a break in his guard, then make a cut... He won't be able to fight. Yes! People will pay attention to him and I can sneak out with Lutz! They won't notice us!_ He grinned, the details of he'd break the guard forming in his head.

Frederich was also putting together a plan. He had noticed the damage of his wallop, as well. Better yet, it was the left shoulder! _He's relied on it at every move. Plus, he's left-handed. If he can't use his left shoulder, he won't be able to parry or attack; he'll dodge and he'll eventually get tired._ The knight made his decision too.

The battle began again. Blades crossed once more into an 'X'. They continued to thrust and repel for a while, trying to figure out the other's strategy. When they had a pretty rough idea, they went for the real strikes. The knight wielded his sword aggressively, forcing his enemy to settle on defensive. Gilbert considered avoiding and fending only until the man lost energy – just like he had done with the other soldiers. However, his plan scattered when a heavy hit landed on his left shoulder. He bit his lip, refusing to whimper, as he jumped back. Instinctively, he brought his hand to the injured shoulder, rubbing as if it would sooth the pain. There was no cut, no blood – he managed to slip his sword in just in time – but it hurt as hell. He moved it a little, at least it wasn't broken! So he sucked it up and retook his guard.

Frederich used the short break to judge on the damage inflicted. The boy was stubborn but one more well-placed blow would be enough to make him unable to continue. Intending to end the fight, the man left an opening in his guard; not big enough to be suspicious, just sufficient to create the possibility of a slash. And Gilbert took the bait. The 'demon' reached for the opening, but the other's blade plunged down in perfect sync. It slammed into his sword with such force that it knock it out his grip. Using his momentary shock, the knight hooked his shoulder for a second time. The boy staggered back, holding his shoulder, in an attempt to get away. Frederich was faster; he smote the back of his foe's knees, causing the white-haired male to lose all balance. The young fighter screwed his eyes shot at the impact, out of reflex.

The King smiled pleased. The soldier who had given the news stared in awe. Some people gasped. Some sighed relieved. Some snickered. A little group cheered or clapped. Others whispered back and forward. The few left watched mouth hanging open, unable to form coherent words – not because of who the winner was, but because of what he won against.

Gilbert barely registered any of those, though. The ringing in his ears prevented him from comprehending much. The only sound he clearly heard was Ludwig calling out to him; and the fear it held wasn't reassuring. Then the kid's words were cut off and only muffled noises and shrieks followed. _What the hell are they doing?!_ Bloody eyes snapped open, body almost jerking up. Almost.

"Let go."

Gilbert would have swallowed the soreness of his body, but the sharp tip pointed at his neck was a real impediment. He could almost feel it breaking through the skin, albeit no further than leaving a scratch. One wrong move and he'd be dead, even more useless than blocked down.

"I don't think so. The fight is over."

"Fine!" His eyes shifted from Ludwig to the knight, then back to his brother. "Fight over, you won; now move!" He didn't know what those people were up to, but it must have been nothing good. He didn't have much time.

Frederich remained still.

"Come on! They'll hurt him! You're a soldier, right? You're supposed to protect the innocents, right? Well, _he's_ innocent! He's just a kid!"

The man appeared to ignore him, being more focused on the cross shaped necklace than the words addressed to him. Only two such necklaces existed. He owned one and he knew exactly where the other one should have been. It belonged to a man about his age, certainly not to a young boy. If this boy was not a thief, it could only mean one thing...

"Do something or let me do it!"

He had to make sure first...

But the knight didn't get the chance to ask any question. Gilbert took him aback by gripping the blade with his right hand and wrenching it away from his throat. Blood ran down the filler but the young male didn't seem to care about injury or the sting. Frederich quickly came to his senses and pushed him down once more. He had enough defying for one day.

"Listen, boy-"

"I don't have time to listen!"

"Then make time. That kid's fate may depend on what I'm telling you." That shut Gilbert up, as well as stopping him from struggling. "They think _you_ are the demon. For all they know, the kid is as human as them and nothing more than a meal for you. That's the usual. They are trying to keep him away from you for his own safety. As long as he acts like he doesn't care one bit about you, like he's just too scared to defy you, he'll be alright. Have you ever met a demon?"

"No."

"Neither have they. Play a good one by being yourself, plus a little flesh hungry. And I'll make sure your friend will be alive and unscratched."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"I'm a knight, I keep my word. Besides, you don't have better alternatives."

The boy sighed. He really didn't have better options. "Deal, but I gotta talk to Lutz first."

"Make it short."

Frederich stood up, calling for the people to free Ludwig because he had something to take back from the so-called demon. Despite showing concerned expressions, they obeyed – after all, they could trust the man. The blond didn't pay it much mind; once freed, he dashed to his brother. Gilbert cut off his worried babbling immediately.

"Take the necklace, find Fritz. I'll get back to you as soon as can." The kid blinked confused, although he did take the necklace; he just couldn't shake off the unpleasant feeling, nor the knots in his belly. "I'm a demon here, play along."

With a final wink, the boy started his role. And indeed a hungry spawn of devil he acted like until Ludwig was out of sight. He honestly didn't have the slightest idea of how he'd get out of this mess, but as long as his brother wasn't gonna meet the stake, he could think about something wise. Or as wise as he was capable of. While he let the soldiers take him wherever they were taking him, he mentally cursed his features. It had been fun scaring people; however, it wasn't worth the problems they had gotten him into so far. _Wait... What did he mean 'play a good one by being yourself'?!_

* * *

At the battle scene only a few people remained. After the show ended, most returned to their own business. Among the ones left, there was Ludwig. He had yet to understand what had exactly happened. The sudden change didn't make any sense to him. Why play along, why pretend? Didn't the fight start in the first place because people – _again_ – mistook Gilbert for a demon? It didn't seem plausible to get out of the mess by confirming the assumption which led to it. He just couldn't see how the playing along would solve things. And speaking of his brother, where did they take him? Why couldn't he go too?

The blond sighed. All these questions promised a headache. He really needed to think more like a kid his age and leave the adults worry for stuffs. Yet, he could not do that. Not now. He knew the restless he felt wouldn't go away until he figured things out. Well... It would take a while...

Plus, he had one more issue to consider. Fritz. How was he supposed to find the man? He had no idea what Fritz looked like or if he lived in this town or if he even lived at all. It was like searching for a ghost! A guide, a description or a picture would have helped greatly. But, of course, he owned none. He held no information, no hint at all.

He sighed again, his shoulder slumbering. Perfect. Just perfect. He clenched his small fists only to find something digging into his palm. The cross. Opening his fist, he stared at the necklace. The only clue he had. So he was supposed to find a man with an identical one and there existed only two, one of which in his very hand. How hard could it be?

As hard as finding one specific fish in a whole ocean.

* * *

The soldier who had informed them about the 'devilish' presence patted Frederich's back energetically. He laughed and praised his superior twice already. Not anyone could defeat such a creature! He made sure to mention it, yet the knight dismissed him.

"That was no demon," he said, "but I'm pretty sure he was a Beilschmidt."

The soldier stopped to give him a confused look, which he promptly ignored. Frederich had his doubts at first – to be fair, he hadn't even given it one single thought. It could have been a coincidence. The boy could have been a thief, for all he knew. His old friend wouldn't have been easy to rob, true. However, Folkert could have fallen in battle. He had heard rumours about the fights going on in the area his friend had been named in charge of. The man was a good warrior, but a battle was a battle and a surprise may have arisen anytime.

He knew for sure that his friend had two sons. Or more. In any case, he had been told about the birth of two. He had visited that area only once, twelve years ago, shortly after the man's first born. They hadn't met ever since. They kept in touch, for a while, through letters. Letters took a long time to arrive, though. Then the battles started.

Some neighbour country decided to invade the land. Terrible idea! It took five weeks for the offensive to be defeated, for the invader to be extinct and the war to end. Furthermore, Sir Beilschmidt conquered the enemy country, annexing it to the Realm of Alarnin. It wasn't a large area, but it was rich in mines. Not as much precious stones as metal. What did a warrior need jewels, anyway? They needed metal for better swords! As he had heard, it had been a productive victory for the smiths and the quality of their weapons.

It had been nothing spectacular. As he knew his old friend, though, it killed boredom. The man liked action, liked fighting – all members of the family that he had met or heard about enjoyed a good battle. They were born out of blood and war, as the late Head of the family used to say. Metaphorically, of course.

So the glory didn't come as a surprise. The great news he received regarded the first born; according to the letter, that war was the boy's initiation in the life of a warrior. Naturally, they couldn't let an eleven years old kid lead an army! What matter, he was part of it. Frederich, had it been his son, would have delayed it, argued that the age was too fresh... Sir Beilschmidt would have laughed at him. It was never too early to walk the path of war! Although he had expected the man to change his view when it came to his own offspring. No, of course it didn't happen.

The knight sighed. He should have remembered all those things an hour ago. He should have wondered about it when he crossed swords with that boy. It was crystal clear the boy was used to fighting – if not by the way he wielded the sword, then by the attitude he showed. A newbie would have hesitated, would have gotten scared, would have fallen against the first soldier he fought. But no, he considered the possibility only when he saw the necklace. Even then, he doubted it. He should have seen the coincidence was too big. Only when he heard the nickname, he believed it. One single person ever called him Fritz, there was no mistaking. But if the boy was here, looking for him, that meant his old friend was dead. That had been the deal; if one of them died before their heirs became of age, then the other would take care of said heirs. Well, it had yet to apply to Frederich's heirs since he didn't have any heirs. But the deal still stood.

He rubbed his temples. Now he had to think of a way to delay the trial, make up an excuse for Gilbert's demon act and convince everyone that the boy was human so he'd be safe from the stake. All in less than a day. Perhaps he could blame the act on the shock of losing a parent? A momentary madness? That wouldn't work well with his future plans, though. If they got there, that is. Couldn't he just get a royal pardon and be done with it?! His eyebrows shot up: he actually could! The King stood right in front of him, this very moment. He could discuss it now. He was close to the King, he had some influence. Plus, the Beilschmidts had served the current Royal Family ever since their appearance. The King would grant a special pardon once in a while for the right person.

"My Lord, may I have a private word with you?"

* * *

The sun had long set, replaced by the moon. Except clouds covered it now. No issue with that, Gilbert was more of a night owl anyway. The issue at hand: he didn't find any solution yet. Hours of pacing around the cell while thinking about a way of getting out of this mess proved unproductive at best. When he was first thrown in – because they could have had the decency of letting him _walk_ in, could they? – he mended the cut in his palm. After the adrenaline disappeared, the wound began stinging and pulsating; it kept reminding him about its presence. He did as much as the conditions permitted him, which consisted in wrapping a cloth torn from his outfit around it to stop the bleeding. It grew sticky and if the scent and sensation were any hint, he'd guessed it got infected. No wonder! Was it hard to at least give him some fresh water? It must have been the most exhausting task in the world!

The chains were another annoying detail. He had occupied himself with trying to break them for a while, epically failing. Seriously now, what purpose did they serve? Had he been a demon, he would have ripped them apart. Then again, he didn't possess the power of one, so he struggled for nothing more than killing time.

Another great method to waste time was fighting with the guards. Arguing with them. Oh, he wished he could hit one of them! Either way, this method succeeded in annoying him and making him lose time he didn't have.

All in all, he came to no solution. The fact that the trial would take place when the sun arose didn't sooth him. It made things worse. He had only a short while left to find a way out. The price he'd have to pay for failing was higher than he could afford. Way higher. If not for his own life – which he cared a whole bunch for, even though he tended to fight battles with all odds against him -, then for Ludwig's sake. Because what could a six years old kid do all by himself? Ludwig was smart for his age, he dearly admitted it. But being smart didn't always compensate for strength. Nor for money. And certainly not for support, not for warmth of family. Or what was left of it, anyway. A child was easy prey, defenceless without an adult to take care and protect him; as much as Gilbert had yet to become a mature, responsible, grownup man, he was better than nothing. He could protect the kid... Never mind that it was usually him to get them into troubles in the first place. He had always been like a magnet for troubles. But that didn't matter! Ludwig needed him – bottom line.

The boy growled, taking his anger on the wall. His fists would not break thick stone, unfortunately. Even if he had been able to break through the walls, they would have hunted him down and he didn't want to think what it might lead to. Returning to the cell at best. He punched again, crying out at pain; damn, it was the injured hand. Which he blamed that soldier for, but shortly after pushed that thought aside. He placed his forearms and forehead against the cold wall. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Thinking about the soldier wouldn't help. Thinking about Ludwig might have been both comforting and terrifying, but it also wouldn't be of any use. He had to focus on a plan that would work.

Two hours later, his mind still lacked any idea. It was almost morning and he was stuck. It never took so long before! With a defeated groan, Gilbert left the wall for the comfort of the bed. He hadn't even realised how exhausted his body was until he lay down. The bed felt hard and cold and he was thankful for the clothes which gave a little softness of their own. A pillow would have been nice too. Instead, he rolled on the side, cuddling one arm under his head as an improvised pillow. His eyelids felt heavy, begging to be let down. Maybe he should have taken a nap, maybe he was just too tired for his brain to function properly. The boy chuckled – maybe he'd dream a plan. It looked like a crazy idea, a careless idea, but he had no more energy left. If he ended up with a blank plan... Well, he'd improvise. Perhaps he'd just break through the guards and run. Not the best option, yet preferable to the fire. His eyes slowly closed as his mind became foggy, submitting to the sweet sleep.

Every soldier knew of terrible things; images which would never release them, haunting their dreams and cursing their daytime. From the carnage on the battlefield to the cries of a mother burying her child. Unavoidable scars. They never forget, they just learnt to live with them. Legends and fairy tales were great, but they didn't truly resemble war; no, they sugar coated it, emphasizing the honey scenes, censoring the gruesome ones. A soldier could train for years, yet nothing prepared him for the real fight. For the emotional or psychological impact. For the realisation that one single mistake could be fateful, that one single decision made the difference between survival and death. For the awareness that they might never see their friends again. For the truth that the outcome, even in the best conditions, held no guarantee. It lacked certainty. Training meant words and faked battles which the mentor stopped before going too far. Out there, on the field, no mentor would step in. Kill or be killed. And no words could prepare one for the sight of their enemy dying; for seeing the life being drained out of him and knowing they caused it; for meeting their gaze. It would remain engraved in their memories until their last breath.

Then, after the fight ended, they counted the casualties. They buried the fallen. They sent the brave souls to the gods. And the mothers would cry their eyes out, clinging to their children, never wanting to let go, refusing to believe the truth. Other people always had to pull them back, so the fire could be set and the dead would have an honourable burial. It was never easy. The present soldiers had to watch it all without flinching, without looking away and give their tributes, their gratitude and respect. For the fallen deserved it, they had fought for their country and King.

The cruelty of reality hadn't spared Gilbert either. The scene of his first kill lay burnt in his memory. The enemy charging, the roars, himself defending, slaughtering, blood rolling down his sword, the man's eyes as he gave his last breath... He had the urge to run. To get far away from the field and pretend it never happened. But his body refused to move, he was frozen in place, staring at the corpse at his feet. It made him sick to the stomach. His hands were trembling, the weapon suddenly too heavy to wield. Despite the eagerness before the battle, despite of how much he had begged his father to allow him participation – right then, right there, he wished it was all a nightmare and he'd woke up with a scream and his mother would dashed to his bedroom to comfort him. No such thing happened. The only scream torn from his chest was the one of pain; not fear, he had no time for that. Just a cry caused by a freshly inflicted wound and a new enemy. What followed was a blur, clouded clips of clashing, roaring, growling, yelling, rolling, launching, fending, slashing, glaring. And lifeless bodies collapsing, blood running rivers. The smell of rotting flesh and death was unbearable too.

It gave him nightmares for weeks. It was not something an eleven years old boy should have faced. Yet, a part of him felt satisfied. Proud. He had fought his first battle, in an official war nonetheless. He had survived. He had taken down enemies. He had rose to the expectations and honoured his name. What more mattered? Plus, despite the sickling feeling, he had enjoyed it. As more and more fights arose, he had grown accustomed to the sight to the point that he loved warring. He loved being on edge; he loved overpowering the enemy, watching him writhe in misery. But what he loved most was a worthy adversary; someone skilled, someone he could not predict, someone who would provide a challenge, an unknown ending.

He thought it would be Fritz, judging from what his father had told him about the man. It only made him even more eager to meet Fritz. But apparently, he found the perfect opponent in the soldier he fought earlier. Knight, wasn't it? That man was more than a match, he played him all along – he blamed it all on exhaustion, though. No one could defeat the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt! Under normal circumstances, anyway... Little did he know how much he underestimated the man.

But the knight wasn't important now, nor was Fritz, nor were the war memories. After all, it wasn't those that terrified him to no end. Certainly not. It was an execution he had witnessed – an execution of a witch. He had closed his eyes during the first seconds, but that didn't prevent him from hearing the screams as the woman was engulfed by flames. He didn't even know who she was or if she truly possessed any magic powers; he knew that he'd never forget her execution, though. When he remembered, he could still see her struggles as they lit the stake, feel the fire's heat, the scent of smoke and burnt flesh, the cries. Nor he'd forget the scolding he got later for being as weak as not looking. Shutting his eyes closed at that wasn't as bad as throwing up after his first real fight, though. Except that his father hadn't seen him puking then. Or maybe the man knew but didn't react because he expected it.

Gilbert shot up to a sitting position, panting. Damn those memories! They were still giving him nightmares and now of all times. Now when he needed proper rest to be able to think. Such dreams didn't classify as peaceful sleep. He hung his head low, pressing his forehead against his knees. His fingers tugged at his hair as he groaned. This was getting him no where. Worst of all, he just had to remember the witch scene, didn't he? He hissed a series of pissed off curses.

It didn't seem to bother the guardian, who chuckled at his distress.

What, was it a warning he'd end up the same as the witch? _Hell no!_ The boy jerked on his feet _. I'm out of here!_ He leaned his forearms against the bars.

"Hey, asshole!" The guard scowled in return, preparing a counter insult. "Gotta go to the bathroom."

At this, the nameless man laughed and approached the cell. There was enough space between the bars to slip hands but far too little to slip a whole body, regardless its size. Plus, horizontal and vertical bars crossed, just to add to the security. Not like it would have worked for a real demon. Anyway, the guard stopped half feet from the bars.

"Got scared? Don't worry, it'll be soon over!"

Gilbert bit back a nasty comment. He had to play his cards well. The bathroom excuse was a crappy one, overused and likely inefficient... If used the regular way.

"Got a problem with that?" He hissed back.

The man seemed even more amused, somehow pleased by the 'confirmation' of his assumption. He pointed to the corner of the cell. "That's the bathroom."

"...seriously?" Alright, so the stinking should have been enough hint that there was no real bathroom. It didn't make it any less unpleasant.

"Sorry, we don't have special treatment for demons." The man mocked.

Unpleasant, yet just what Gilbert hoped for. He had expected not to be let out the cell. Then he could whip the annoying grin off the guard's face.

"Could you at least turn around?"

The man rolled his eyes; he folded his arms and turned his back to the boy. "Satisfied?" He gasped when he was pulled against the bars, instinctively reaching for the chain around his neck. He fell for it so easily.

"Very. Keys, if you may?"

Gilbert wrenched his hands closer, pressing the chain harder against the guard's throat. The man struggled, grunting and pulling at the chain in a failed attempt to get free, only managing to lose air. It was the boy's turn to roll his eyes. _What a fool..._

"You're wasting your time... and breath. A mere human can't match my strength, I can snap your neck like a stick." The menacing voice did its job; the guard stilled and gulped. "But I feel merciful tonight." Gilbert continued a little lighter. "I'll let you go if you give me the keys. If you don't..." His breath fell right on the man's neck, too close for comfort. He gave a throaty laugh. "I might take breakfast earlier."

The man flinched visibly – it was all he needed to scrabble for the keys. After almost dropping them, he held them up in the air. "H-here..."

"How many other guards are there?" The 'demon' gripped the keys, albeit he didn't remove the chain.

"T-three, I th-think..."

"What's the matter, human? Got scared?"

Yes, he had to retort it. When the man didn't answer, he applied a hit hard enough to knock him out, yet not enough to kill him. The boy took a moment to laugh at the guard's cowardice and foolishness for believing the show, then proceeded to unlock the chains. He rubbed his now free wrists – much better. He fell on his knees, trying to shove the right key into the cell's lock. It wouldn't turn, though. Great sync to get stuck! After a few more attempts, something clicked. Ha! He was about to stand up and escape when a pair of boots caught his eyes. He lifted his gaze only to see the very same knight from earlier.

 _You gotta be kidding..._

His luck just sucked. He had been so close. Then this guy had to show up! The scene, as much as it lacked motion, was incriminatory enough: the guardian knocked out cold, the chains thrown on the floor, the door cracked open and the prisoner down on his knees with keys in hand. Gilbert smiled awkwardly, but the other details removed any hint of innocence the smile might have held. Frederich folded his arms and raised an eyebrow, demanding an explanation. He would not be fooled so easily.

"What?" The boy barked out, recognising the expectant expression; his father used to put on the very same one when he wanted a confession. It worked every time. "He's alive!" The young male pointed to the guard before standing up with a huff and dusting his clothes. "He'll wake up... Soon!"

Frederich sighed in return. "I expected nothing less."

"Huh?"

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed it! I could have shortened it but I would have left it in a boring place, so... Anyway, I think this leaves things at wonder. Right? Once again, let me know what you think (especially about the battle scene). From** _ **Legends of Alarnin**_ **series, I have half the story of Arthur (England) and Allistor (Scotland), which I may or may not post before the next chapter of this little story. What do you think?**


End file.
